


The Spitroast of Christmas Past

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 17:37:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18596170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: The Ghost of Christmas Past gives Scrooge one of the best Christmas gifts he's ever received.





	The Spitroast of Christmas Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thehousethatfloats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehousethatfloats/gifts).



> I did the thing. Are you happy now? I regret nothing. It's something we've all wondered the moment we watched the episode, and honestly, this gift is one of the best things I've ever done. I really don't regret anything.

It isn’t a normal occurrence. It isn’t an abnormal occurrence either.

Past’s offer has no strings attached, nor does it reek of treachery. His remorse wants to repair the wrong he’s done. Scrooge’s forgiveness falls on deaf ears. The cricket’s shame is palpable.

“It was an important night. A night of merriment and joy,” he hangs his head low. “I’m going to make it up to you.”

Scrooge doesn’t ask questions. He grips the cricket’s cape and is pulled through time. It’s light, almost senseless. He can never describe the sensation of time passing him backward. It’s more of a rapid kaleidoscope highway than an empty tunnel; time and gravity is suspended. No matter. He never tires of this sensation; it feels like he’s flying for the first time, every time.

But as quickly as it starts, it ends. Scrooge is deposited in his mansion, and stares in confusion. Quiet, dark, and mysteriously empty, he walks into the main hall where a gaping hole stares back. Beagle Boys, he scowls. Past sent him back to the party. Why? His friend isn’t there to explain himself. Doubt pushes on the back of his mind, and Scrooge shakes it off. Past’s remorse was true.

He shrugs. If this is where Past wants him to be, he’ll wander until he discovers the reason. He walks upstairs and makes a left towards his room. It’s a silent, uncomfortable walk. Scrooge wonders where Duckworth is, but seeing the damage, most likely retrieving what was stolen. He shakes his head. “Christmas parties,” he grumbles. “Nothing but trouble, Ae say.”

His cane raps softly on the carpet; not so softly to gather attention. And this could be the reason he was able to hear the sounds down the corridor. His brow furrows, and he holds his cane an inch above the carpet. A muffled, strangled sound reaches his ears; a painful slap that ripples through still air. It makes his feathers raise in alarm, and he strikes a battle ready as he strides silently the rest of the way. A Beagle Boy? He shakes his head, Magica De Spell? Glomgold? No. His enemies are vast and endless, but none of these were present on this particular night, or for some, born.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , his beak curls in a snarl. _They’ll learn not tae cross Scrooge McDuck!_

Had his nephews witnessed this, they’d be impressed. His light stepped moves got him to the end of the corridor in less than a minute where the unusual sounds doubled in volume. He leans forward, ear close to pressing on the wood. It’s motionless on his end. He inhales, stopping the automatic exhale mid-breath. The slaps rap in quick success. Harsh, unforgiving. The screams are muffled, pained, and Scrooge grinds his teeth in disgust. Without delay, Scrooge pulls back and rears his foot forward.

The door gives way with little protest. It swings open, and Scrooge jumps forward, waving his cane for battle. “Aha,” he shouts, triumphantly. “Ye’ thought ye’ could sneak in me home ye’ vain vagrant -,” he chokes mid-sentence. If it is possible, which no one can be sure with ducks, his feathers lost their natural sheen and healthy color.

“Wot in blazes!” Scrooge screams back.

Scrooge realizes while it’s his voice and body that he sees, it isn’t him, not as he is now. He flushes red.

“Well,” he tips his hat. “Young Me.”

Young Scrooge’s right hand holds in mid-slap, eager to connect with the plump rump resting on his lap. The plump rump is connected to a slender bodied woman, currently gagged and sufficiently tied. She’s blindfolded, and her head lowers as she waits for the impending slap. She’s startlingly patient for that slap, Scrooge muses as he tilts his head to the side.

“Goldie?” He points with his cane, “Ae...Ae...don’t...oh.”

Because yes, yes, this indeed happened.

“This is the night.”

“Yes,” Young Scrooge scowls. “This is the night ye’re ruinin’ for us.”

“And how was Ae supposed tae knae? Past jes dropped me off! Ae donnae it was this Christmas night.” It’s true, but he can tell his younger self doesn’t believe him. “Wot!?”

Young Scrooge grimaces, a reprimand at the forefront when Goldie kicks impatiently. Her ass has cooled, and the painful sting fades. With an eyeroll, he removes the gag, and smirks at her annoyed hiss, “What’s taking you so long? Don’t tell me your arthritis is actin’ up again!”

Young Scrooge pales.

Scrooge chuckles. Young Scrooge glares.

“Are you serious,” Goldie groans. “Is that Scrooge?”

“Wait,” he pulls back, “ye’ knae?”

“I’m bound and gagged,” she addresses, annoyed. “I’m not deaf.”

Point taken.

An uncomfortable silence passes. Scrooge coughs, and tips his hat. “Ae think Ae’ll take my leave,” he says, mildly. “Ae’ll see ye when Ae brush me teeth in the morning.”

“Where do you think you’re going,” Goldie snaps.

One foot crosses the threshold when he stops. “Wot are ye’ goin’ about,” he turns.

Goldie rolls her head. “I mean,” she huffs, “if you’re already here it makes no sense to decline the seven course meal sitting in front you.”

“Goldie, no,” Young Scrooge sighs.

“And why not,” she cranes her neck, stare locking him on the spot. “It’s something you’ve always wondered about, don’t you sit in front me and lie.” She winks at Scrooge, “And I know the thought is still there too.”

Scrooge blushes and looks away, suddenly embarrassed. It doesn't feel better to notice his younger self's identical expression, though he keeps his attention on her lightly bruised ass. 

Scrooge deliberates, coughing into his hand. “Ae suppose it’d be a waste,” he sets his cane along the wall, “tae simply walk away.”

Young Scrooge caresses her bottom, curling a finger into her feathers. He twists firmly, then pulls, and smirks when she hisses. The sound hits them at the same time, and they feel a rising stirring in their loins. Young Scrooge’s erection hits her side impatiently, a dangerous sign if they intend to stretch this out to the night’s latest hour.

“Move aside,” he throws off his coat. He is the man’s future, and he is his past. "It isn’t like ye don’t have what I’ve already seen.”

Her gleeful grin is all the approval they need.

* * *

She’s in the middle, restraints cuffed on each wrist. She’s blindfolded and prematurely bruised, her expressed preference. The stings on her ass have faded, but purplish blue bruises remain. She's ready and impatient. She barks how long it’ll take them to get on with it.

“Seriously, I don’t -,” it just happens her sentence is stuffed down to incomplete when Scrooge shoved his dick into her open mouth.

Her body stills completely, and he feels the glare behind her blindfold. Annoyance and lust mix together, and only increases at the sound of their joint laughter. Her negativity does nothing to stop her tongue from curling around his erection like a starving viper, and her beak suctioned in proportion to him. Scrooge hissed, gently stringing his fingers through her hair to clasp.

Young Scrooge smirked, “Finally got her tae stuff it.” His erection bobbed on her exposed ass. A single finger slid across her swollen lips, resting the waters to see if it was ready. He licked the upper roof of his mouth, sliding one, then another inside, and she moaned around Scrooge, shimmying herself to the side.

It’s warm and wet and tight inside her. Worse than a finger trap, which is exactly what he expects. He smirks, curling his fingers upward in search of a spongy patch he’s become well acquainted, her back stiffens, and she pulls away out of reflex. He puts a hand on her hips, and digs his fingers to the skin, a warning.

He wants to massage the spot more, longer, harder, but this isn’t why he’s there. He pulls his fingers free, and guides his entrance to her waiting entrance. His tips hovers, an inch or two inside, and as his older self thrusts his gleefully, with thinly veiled restraint (her preference), he slams full force inside. The slam sounds across the room, clanging in the walls, but the groan around his cock is all that matters.

They chuckle.

Scrooge shifts according to hit the spot he needs, hand gripping her hip for added precision. He leans forward ever so slightly, and dips his fingers to her clit, swollen and pink. It’s sensitive to the touch, this bundle of nerves designed specifically for this purpose. He isn’t gentle, circling two fingers on what is considered an exposed nerve.

He feels her warmth tightening around her. Pulsating like a beating heart, the rhythm shakes him to the core. He doesn’t think of his older self, lurched forward in a similar fashion while he face fucks her with more vigor than he expects a man of his age to apply. He tangles his fingers in her hair, clasping so tightly one may assume he’s tugged multiple strands out.

It doesn’t matter, and none of them care. Hair will grow back. They’re arched to her front and her back. She’s sandwiched, in a manner, between them, caught in the middle of two extremes. She inhaled his haggis, coin ridden scent, and finds herself suffocating. But it’s a delight she refuses to deny herself.

She’s no longer tightening. Her orgasm clasps him in a tight hold, miniature tremors snaking over her skin. He continues to move, thrusting to the end of her reach, and feels burning relief, stopping as pleasure explodes in his spine. He tremors last longer, pumping around, and the moment he releases his fingers a waterfall gushes onto the comforter. Her legs squeeze. She closes her eyes.

Scrooge grips her hair and jerks her head back. He pumps ruthlessly, holding her at the perfect angle, and with her emerald glare on him, he releases on her face. White splatters on white, and their groans ring with applause.

She collapses, wrists confined to her restraints, and they repeat her action on each side, chests rising as they fight for their breaths.

Seconds pass.

“Anybody want a drink,” Goldie rasps.

Somehow, one or the other manages to locate the liquor cabinet, which was fortunately not stolen. They return with scotch and water and glasses, though the smaller ones are for her benefit. They find her in bed, hair tussled, and scent befuddled, a consequence of their recent actions that pleased them.

Young Scrooge slides to the left. Scrooge takes the right. They ignore the stain on the comforter. He’ll wash it himself, the younger man decides. They pour their drinks, hear their soft clinks, and smirk with satisfaction as they gulp down, leaning in her shoulders in comfort.

“That was fun,” she says, eyelids heavy. “Can’t say it’s the worse Christmas I’ve experienced.” She raises her glass, turning it over in her grip, “Definitely one of the better ones.”

Young Scrooge hums, then yawns. “Ae suppose,” his beak falls on her shoulder. “Deal with the Beagles tomorrow,” he mumbles, dropping his glass to the floor with a soft thud.

“Cannae believe yer stamina,” Scrooge gripes, but the smile on his face betrays him. He snakes an arm around her waist, “And seeing Past hasn’t come back.”

“That cricket?” Goldie scoffs weakly, “He wanted to share the joy of Christmas 1966? Should’ve held out until New Year’s. Now, that’s a party.”

Had she kept quiet, he wouldn’t have remembered. Not then and there, at least. It isn’t like he’s forgotten. This is a date that has slipped from immediate memory, but as his past snuggles into Goldie’s embrace and he spoons her from behind, his eyes wide .

They glance at her, at him, and the clock.

Should he?

“Nah,” he thinks, cuddling her as a sheepish grin grows. “They’ve got until April, August at most.”

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely owed somebody this weeks ago. I got lazy. Then I had trouble writing the actual smut. But I did it, darn it. I definitely did, and I'm happy I did it.
> 
> Shoutout to House, for being one of my Smut Mentors, and a cool friend.


End file.
